


At the Bottom

by lizzstomania



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Frottage, M/M, Supernatural AU: Croatoan/End'verse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-18
Updated: 2012-05-18
Packaged: 2017-11-05 13:49:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/407150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lizzstomania/pseuds/lizzstomania
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One last time before they go.</p>
            </blockquote>





	At the Bottom

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote this one for my creative writing class and changed the names. because you know, i'm awesome at college. title and general inspiration from the song 'at the bottom' by brand new. [download link](http://www.mediafire.com/?b968gop9vpd4xy1)

"If this goes well, we die tomorrow." Castiel’s voice is low, amused, and it startles a laugh out of Dean. He’s not used to laughing.

"You givin' me the 'last night on earth' speech?"

Cas raises an eyebrow in his direction, teasing. "Is it working?"

Dean laughs again. Yeah, it sort of is. It might have something to do with the way Cas is slowly rutting against him, shirtless and panting, or maybe it’s the way this thing between them has been the only sure thing in the shit storm that’s been Dean’s life up till now, but _hell yeah_ , it's working. Cas is warm and there and _alive_ , so alive in a world of nothing but death and demons and decay. Nothing, not an apocalypse, not _anything_ , could stop him from having this one last time.

He slots his body over Cas', ignoring the stale taste of cigarettes as he licks into Cas' mouth. He grinds down, swallowing the noises tripping off Cas' tongue before rolling them over, reveling in the press of Cas' body over him. They fit together seamlessly, like they were made for this, this carnal dance at the end of days. Cas is incendiary, hotter than this tiny bunk in this tiny room can possibly be expected to handle, burning through time and space, spiraling out of control and taking Dean with him. His brain spins off, wonders how God would feel about this, if He really cares that much about what you do with the people you love, before the thought is roughly shoved aside with lips and teeth and tongue. _It's the end of the world_ , Dean thinks. _Might as well bang a few gongs before you go_.

Cas' hands, wide and hot, slide under Dean's shirt, pulling the threadbare material up and off and away. He presses fierce, hot kisses along the line of Cas' jaw; the rough fabric of their jeans catching and pulling as they rock their hips together. The room smells like weed and sex and desperation; every movement, every touch is dripping with echoes of _this is the last time_. Tomorrow, they take on the Devil. Tomorrow, surely, they die.

But not _now_. Now is heat and mouths and hands and Cas under him and in him in the most real way. Now is long fingers careening over bare skin, mapping hipbones and leaving bruises. Now is _everything_ , everything that ever mattered, everything that ever made sense and all the things that didn’t. Because this is _Cas_. Because Cas matters in a way that no one has ever mattered; Cas will never be more important than Sam, not ever, but it’s _different_ with Cas. Because Dean _loves_ him, loves Cas and his stupid blue eyes and his hero complex and his drug addiction. Loves Cas' hands on him, sliding down his sides and into the front of his jeans, unbuttoning buttons and shoving underwear aside. Dean's in love and he thinks he always has been; every single movement, all the sunrises and thunderstorms were pushing him towards Cas, sending him barreling headfirst into something it would take him years to understand. As Cas’ mouth closes over his nipple, driving the breath from his lungs, he stops himself because now isn't the time to _think_ , now is the time to _feel_.

He can feel the hard length of Cas' cock pushing against his own. He can feel the damp heat of Cas' mouth on his neck. He can feel the stubbornly silky strands of Cas' hair between his fingers. He can feel it building, that indefinable sensation swooping through him that's one part lust, one part love, and one part _other_. It fills him up, spills over and out of his mouth, a mantra of _I love yous_ , five years too late. Cas shivers and gasps, grinding harder, down, down, hands tight on Dean’s hips. Faster and slower and faster again, and Dean’s panting, hands scrabbling at the sweat-slick skin of Castiel’s back, fingernails raking hot trails as he pulls Cas closer and closer still. Two more wild, almost angry thrusts and Cas arches and moans, coming with a desperate, violent cry, and Dean follows close behind.

His head rolls into the crook of Cas' shoulder as he rides out his orgasm, sweaty forehead against glistening skin. He’ll never know how their fingers wind up twisted together, but he never wants to let go. Unbidden, words float up from deep in his subconscious: _some men die under the mountain just looking for gold; some die looking for a hand to hold_ , a song he must have caught before the world started burning and things like music became obsolete in the face of things like survival. He _aches_ inside, hollow and dark, twisted and empty and angry. Cas is a blanket, covering him almost completely; it’s madness maybe, temporary insanity, but Dean can’t help but wonder what it would be like to have this all the time, to wake up under Cas every morning for the rest of his life. With a pang of something close to hopelessness, he realizes that if he doesn’t kick Cas out tonight, he will.

Cas’ fingers drum a mindless rhythm against the side of Dean’s hair. Tomorrow, they hunt the Devil. Tomorrow, they all die. Cas rolls over to curl up beside him, one long, pale leg hitched up over Dean’s tanned hip, hand splayed across Dean's chest. There’s a high probability that Dean will have to watch Cas die tomorrow, but tonight… tonight, he’ll let himself pretend otherwise.


End file.
